12.06.2008

OJ, WHAT I'LL REMEMBER

If you ever saw him pick up the baton, 205 pounds of muscle hurtling down the backstretch, smooth, controlled, fast, handing off to Fred Kuller who would give to anchor man Lennox Lewis, leadoff man Earl McCulloch and OJ standing on the infield now watching Lewis head for home, you wonder now, seeing OJ Simpson shackled in prison blues, trying to explain his behavior in a hotel room with a gun, how it ends up like this.
I do.
I’m no OJ Simpson apologist, I just happen to have a history with the guy, as a fan, back in the Bay Area, watching him play football at USC and run track, the most gifted two-sport athlete I think I’ve ever seen. Bo Jackson was a great three-sport athlete, football, baseball and track, but he was different, more power, less finesse, but yes, he could hit major league pitching. OJ, man,he was poetry. Simpson was the first back in my memory that was over two hundred pounds that combined enough power, with blinding speed and the slick hips and quick feet to move through holes and past linebackers so fast he was unstoppable in college. Gayle Sayers had beautiful style and great speed but he couldn’t take the pounding. OJ had it all. He combined Jim Browns ability to slip tackles and give you the wrong angle with the quickness and speed of the smaller backs. Gayle Sayers was Count Basie. Great style and a great band who played well with others. OJ was John Coltrane, Duke Ellington, Elvis, Horowitz. Stand alone on a stage and do it. The full range of style, grace, power and touch, every run was a masterpiece, every hand-off a chance to score. He was that good.
Few athletes really excel at football, and track. There have been a few. OJ, Herschel Walker, Bo Jackson, Isaac Curtis, to name a few. OJ was part of a world record 440 yard relay team. World Record. That’s how fast he was. It’s hard to think of OJ as under-appreciated as a professional, but you have to wonder if he’d been in the backfield with say, a Joe Namath, or Bart Starr, how he would have been regarded. Yes, he’s in the Hall of Fame and held the NFL rushing record, but fans are quick to point out players like Emmitt Smith, Walter Payton, Jim Brown, Tony Dorsett and even Franco Harris when the discussion comes around to the great running backs. Don’t forget Juice.
And now, he’s infamous. Along with Pete Rose and Mike Tyson, undoubtedly the three most enigmatic athletes of my time. Great, all three, but tragically flawed. Unable to separate their athletic greatness from the innumerable flaws as humans. The same fine-tuned concentration and focus they use to become the best at their sports, they use to block out their flaws and quirks, allowing them to dominate their personalities to the point of destruction.
I don’t know what message there is in this most recent downfall. I don’t. He’s a criminal, clearly. Perhaps guilty of much more than armed robbery and kidnapping. Perhaps much more. We’ll never really know, but we’ll always have our suspicions.
But I know he was great, once. I know he was one of the first super-human gifted athletes who ran in trunks on a track where there is no hiding. He ran in college with the best and dominated on that field. As a pro he set records for teams that were average, extending his career beyond his greatness, perhaps the first sign of the vanity that would do him in.
But, God, he was beautiful to watch. I make no apology for bad behavior. I’ll always remember him after the murders, on trial, going free. I’ll always remember him in the court of public opinion, losing. I’ll remember the Vegas debacle and the trial and the sentencing, his last words a sham, a scam, nobody buying it.
But I’ll also remember him holding the baton, the way I’d never seen anybody run, and on the field, reversing his direction, after a sweep was shut off, cutting back, launching a pass into the end zone to beat Stanford, something no mortal could possibly do. But he did. He did once, he did. He did those things that no one else could do. I remember.

12.02.2008

WHAT I MISS ABOUT BERKELEY

Memorial Stadium and Edwards Field; Telegraph Avenue, Durant Ave, Shattuck and Ashby, some of the best street names in the whole country. Grove Way, University Ave, Solano Ave, Dwight Way, Benvenue, where I lived for a year a block from the Patty Hearst kidnapping. Kleeburger Field where I played intramural soccer with the legendary ‘East-West’ team filled with Jamaicans and Americanos and big Don Ross guarding my ass when I was goalie. Kips, where I worked for three years and almost got fired for drinking beer one night before I was twenty one and someone told owner Joe Di Sano. He kicked my ass. Tower Records, Leupold’s Records; KLAX radio, that study in the failure of racial college politics but good training for my radio script writing, Sproul Plaza and the drum line on Sunday’s, the Edwards Field baseball complex in the spring when I cut class and almost flunked Econ 1-A with Professor Nadel; a couple of the girls at Kips, Nancy something who had terrific tits and tried to seduce me one night after a party at my house but she couldn’t quite swing it, me holding out for some damn reason; Sandy Browne, God bless her; Cody’s, the Coop market; REI, Ski Hut, North Face, some of the best outdoor shops in the country back in the early 70’s; The Big Game, Larry Blakes after a big Kennedy Games track meet when all the runners would show up and drink beer; Eddie Hart, Isaac Curtis, Wesley Walker, Joe Roth, Steve Bartkowski, Vince Ferragamo, Chuck Muncie, Dave Fishbaugh, Phil Chenier, Brady Allen, Dave Masters (these were the jocks that ruled Cal in the early 70’s); The Keystone, Freight and Salvage, the Berkeley Community Theater, the Jazz Festival at the UC Greek Theater and looking out over the stage and the columns when Miles Davis was in town, seeing the Golden Gate Bridge at night and the Bay Bridge and San Francisco and thinking it ain’t going to get much better then this and damn, it hasn’t, really; Wayne Shorter, Herbie Hancock, George Benson, Carlos Santana; wondering, during the Viet Nam war era and the protests and the anger at the US botching a major foreign policy initiative that ended in a useless and deadly war, if the United States would ever regain enough honor to lead in any other worldwide conflict and you know, the jury is out on that and I don’t know if that qualifies as something I miss but it was sure a part of life then; my going away party when I moved to Jackson Hole Wyoming and the great friends and the wine and good food and the gifts; Cindy Greer and that’s all I’m going to say about you, my dear, you’re one that got away; my 1964 Karman Ghia convertible, and of course the lovely Nora Lindahl, who sat in that car many times and was she a sweetheart, or what?? Crappy little FM radio in that Ghia, but with the top down, who cared?

10.16.2008

HALLOWEEN MOON

He was bent over. He looked okay, though. She didn’t.
I’d popped into Coco’s in Barstow after hiking in Owl Canyon north of town. It was a full moon. Hadn’t shaved in almost a week.
They always treat me good at the Coco’s in Barstow, usually after I’ve been wandering around the desert, rooting around in my Jeep, hiking, taking photos, trying to capture that eternal silence you only find in the desert. I’d found some, where you keep listening, waiting for something to disturb it like a pebble rippling a pool but it stays silent, pure.
I could feel them moving towards the counter where I was sitting. Moving, barely, so slow. They came closer, the woman holding the arm of the man. I turned and looked and saw a man bent over holding a cane and a woman with a sickly grin and no teeth, holding his arm and he looked at me with clear blue eyes, hunched over, and asked if there was room for two next to me.
Of course, I said. He smiled. She smiled. She had very few teeth yet kept her mouth open. He turned and leaned his cane against the counter and gripped the edge with his hand and I asked if he wanted me to hold the cane. He said yes, and I took the cane. It was warm from his grip and he leaned in to the seat and I pulled the cane back out of the way, my fingers curled around the black vinyl handle, holding something that had been in his hand for how many days? How many hours?
It was his back, he said, mumbling that he didn’t know if was the bed that was causing the pain, looking at me with the blue eyes framed with bushy black eyebrows. The woman stroked her chin and opened and closed her mouth, a row of incomplete teeth.
My back bothers me too, I said, working out, at the computer, writing. Locked up pretty good a few weeks ago, I said, putting the cane back in his hand. I needed more lemonade and held the glass up to the waitress who disappeared and came back with another one.
I study law now, the man said. I guessed his age between seventy five and eighty.
Like to become a lawyer? I asked.
He reached in the pocket of his white shirt, a blue turquoise bolo tie hanging around his neck. The woman stroked her chin, moving her jaw up and down, working it.
He handed me a business card.
Life & The Future as an ethical theory and a Philosophy of Law
It’s a philosophy that supports the future of life, he said.
They come to me, I thought. Let them speak.
Are you studying this? I asked. Developing this idea?
You tell one person, who lives it, the idea that all actions should support the future of life, and it influences another person, he explained. It could change the world.
My sausage and pepper fettuccine arrived.
I’m on board, I said, between mouthfuls of spicy Italian sausage and a salty marinara. It might need a little explaining, some developing, I said, to get the point across.
What needs explaining? He said. He gave the waitress his order. One order. Two plates. She scurried away.
Canals, he said. Build canals.
For what? I asked.
Develop desert property, grow crops.
We have canals, I said. The Colorado River is siphoned off to Vegas, Southern California.
He said China had canals.
He asked me if I would consider China successful, under this new ethical concept that supported the future of life, compared to the United States.
They’ve got a lot of people, I said. They’ve been at it a while. Three or four thousand years, I said. They had philosophers writing down theories of life in the fifth century, B.C. Earlier, even. Lao Tzu, Chuang Tzu, Confuscius.
Well, they had canals, he said.
I’ll eat a bit, I thought, let the conversation breathe. I gulped lemonade, heavy on the sugar. Nice and cold. The waitress cruised by a couple of times, looking my way, asking if I was OK. Fine, I’d say. I probably looked exactly like what I was, a desert rat crawling out from a dusty trail, chowing down next to a local and his companion.
No difference between a child and an eighty year old man, he said.
Experience, maybe, I said. Judgement. A child is open but he lacks experience to find his way in the world. He needs guidance. An eighty year old has wisdom. Children have no wisdom.
I started a family worship when I was five years old, he said.
Did you grow up here?
Oregon, he said. What do you think of my idea?
Nice. Good stuff. Can’t go wrong with that, I said.
The woman hadn’t said a word. I’d seen women like that standing at freeway exits with shopping carts and black plastic bags and a cardboard sign scrawled with a plea for help and I’d probably driven by a hundred of them. She sat, patient, some relationship with this man who wanted to change the world.
Then I noticed the man’s hands. He had hair on his hands. Long hair, growing out of his fingers, at least an inch. Lots of hair, on the fingers, the spaces between his knuckles, on the back of his hands and on the wrist coming out of the cuff of his white shirt.
The waitress took my plate and asked if I wanted to have some desert and I waved it off, saying no, that was plenty. She left the check.
So what do you think of my idea, the man said again.
Good, I said. Good luck with it.
You think you can do anything to help me with it?
I gathered the check and the Daily Press: Victor Valley and the High Desert.
I’d like to, I said. I don’t live around here. I enjoyed talking with you. I shook his hand.
He smiled, his bushy black eyebrows giving way to wrinkled creases and he nodded his head. The woman smiled.
Maybe I’ll see you around, I said.
The cane leaned up against the counter between them. She hadn’t said a word since she’d sat down, that I’d heard. I wonder if she ever did. Wonder if she had much to say to the man. Maybe he did all the talking.
The cane was brushed aluminum with a black vinyl handle.
The big full moon was over the horizon, light dimming in the west. A young woman in nice jeans and a rust colored shirt walked across the parking area to a pay phone and put in some coins . She looked good in the nice jeans. Strawberry blonde hair almost matching the shirt, tied back in a pony tail. Neon signs were coming on at the restaurants and gas stations and motels on Main Street, Barstow. People, moving in and out of shadows and pink sunsets and the big harvest moons that shine over the desert, eating at cafĂ©’s and putting coins in the pay phones. A man walked up and stood at the phone kiosk on the other side of the woman in the rust colored shirt.

9.24.2008

I KNOW HOW JAMES DEAN DIED

I was fighting it, my lids heavy, eyes tired from getting up at three thirty, four o’oclock in the morning for a couple of days. I was snapping out of it, on the highway, out around Blackwell’s corner and the San Andreas fault and a lot of nothing out west of I-5 coming out of Paso Robles. Maybe it was the fish sandwich at Foster’s Freeze. The girl said the fish sand at McDonald’s scared her, no way she ate that stuff. ‘I make my own tartar sauce,’. Do it, I said. It was good. Maybe it was cruising Paso Robles looking for a Chevron station and settling for an Exxon. What’s the difference? Out past the wineries and vineyards and new housing projects silenced in mid-form, out into the dust and empty hills, heading towards Blackwell’s corner and Lost Hills. Didn’t want to do a James Dean. Didn’t want to find some chasm in the San Andreas and become a fossil for someone to pick up a million years from now and speculate. Hmmm…maybe he was driving one of those gas powered vehicles they used to drive. Right here, in front of the oil derricks pumping crude out of the ground, strung together with pipes and electric poles with cord running all through the patch and big steel locusts like insects sucking blood. Stay awake, stay awake.
Blackwell’s corner is in the middle of nowhere. No trees. No signs, no motels, a big steel warehouse, they’re putting in gas pumps and a big parking area on both sides. Air conditioned, snack bar, aisles of almonds in all sizes of plastic zip lock bags. Walnuts, pistachios. Roasted, raw, lightly salted, Cajun style, jalapeno, onion and garlic, get your almonds any which way and suck ‘em on down with a splash of your favorite soda.
From a distance the oil wells in Lost Hills look like a construction project putting up skinny frames of black steel, way off, a couple of miles maybe, just structure, an outline, low lying scatter in some early form of organization, and you’re looking for a sign or something announcing the development, for-sale, call this number for information. There are a couple of pickup trucks parked near the dirt road entrances, little white square signs announcing Chevron Field 29, guys sitting in the front seats behind the wheel with the door open wearing white hard hats, hell of a job, I think. No chance to take some photos without getting run off so I head on down the straight blacktop.
If you’re going to devastate a few square miles of land this is the place to do it, I’m figuring. Nobody tills this land, no one for miles. I don’t see any almond orchards in sight, no walnut trees, nothing, just dried grass making the land golden but it’s the crude that makes the dough, here. Not almonds and beer and gas stations. Lost hills is a stop light of two-story sand colored apartments and a bar or two and a Mexican restaurant and that’s the life, I guess, you go on in to Bakersfield for some real fun.
I wonder what it will be like when we drill in ANWAR. I’ll never be up there, I don’t think. I’ve been to Alaska and there’s a lot of open space but it’s pristine, majestic, mountains and streams and eagles flying off the trees next to the rivers in big looping beats of wings making their own wind, snow cap peaks and glaciers and there’s no room there for sucking the ground. I know we need oil. I know.
I pick up two one-pound bags of roasted, unsalted almonds for six ninety-nine, a couple of bucks cheaper than Von’s, and I’m good. Drinking a coke in the car to wake up and on down past the enclave of Lost Hills and I’m pushing out on to I-5 south with the trucks and cars and the funneling of effort down to the grapevine and the rush to get over the hills.
I’m back now, home. My sound system sounds better, the air conditioning cools down the house, I put away some groceries and steam some vegetables and eat some food and settle in. Out on the San Andreas the earth shifts, little by little, and we pull out what we think we need from down below. My air conditioner shuts off and I turn on the television. I need some ice in my drink.

8.19.2008

HANDS HIGH

At the end of the first fight, the referee held up both fighter’s arms and the crowd cheered. We had cheered all through the fight. The fighters deserved our best. The boys had given it everything they had and we knew it. They were eight or nine years old.

When the bell sounded to begin the fight they stood together in the middle of the ring and planted their feet, and without moving their heads or their feet, they swung mighty punches at each other and hit each other and landed blows on their faces and their arms and their necks and chests and they didn’t back down, neither of them, until the bell sounded ending the fight after three two-minute rounds.

We clapped our hands until they were raw. We cheered and whistled and the trainers cut off the gloves and then the fighters went to the center where the referee checked both fighter's hands for his initials signifying that the taping had been approved before the fight, and he held both of their hands high.

Finally the referee held one fighter's arm high, the winner, and the fighter took a medal on a long ribbon and placed it around the other boy’s neck and I was moved by this simple act of kindness and sportsmanship in a rough sport that boys take up. He put the medal around the boys neck, and then he took the winner's trophy and held it over his head.

7.17.2008

LARRY BOWA'S YELLING AT ME

I read today in the Sports Pages where the Dodgers staff is issuing the outlook for the second half of the season, Torre and Bowa wondering what the hell happened between New York and LA, more than a sports version of culture shock. Torre says something like ‘if you have kids you can tell them not to play with matches but until they burn themselves…” That’s not the kind of Knute Rockne ‘Win one for that McCourt guy’ speech I’d be hoping for if I was the Dodger owner.

The Dodgers have some pitching but mid-way into 2008 the manager and the coaches and the media are still wondering when the wonder kids will wake up and start realizing they’re playing for Joe Torre and not Grady Little or Jim Tracy. Torre. Guy hangs rings in his closet. Torre, the guy caught Bob Gibson, for God’s sake. Torre, manager of Derek Jeter and Mariano Rivera and (gasp!) Roger Clemens and Andy Pettitte. Listen to the man.

Bowa talks about professionals being consistent. “That’s what the big leagues is all about. Have a game plan, execute, consistency, work ethic, not getting distracted. Guys who do that are the guys who succeed. Guys who don’t do that have one good game and three bad games.” Perfect. So I’m writing. Day by day.

I ran into a woman I’d worked with in the cable television business the other day at the supermarket. She shouted my name! She was a real cutie, always flirting with me and wearing low cut shirts. Man, oh man. She was stacking magazines on the racks and we caught up. I told her I was done with the corporate world. Writing, going to minor league baseball games to work for a few bucks, find a way to squeak by until the 401K money kicks in. Lay low, maybe get a book signed, published, that’s the plan, I said.

In the corporate world you get paid just to show up. Results oriented pay usually comes as bonuses, but you get paid. Sometimes some pretty damn good money. I see the names of some of my old colleagues now on Facebook but I really don’t want them around any more. I know who I need to know, who I want to know. Lots of people I never really wanted to but had to. Done with that.

Thumbed through a dozen Bukowski books last night and bought one book of poetry. His picture in the back of one of the books showed him standing in the betting room at the race track penciling in long shots on the Racing Form, alone with his horses and the windows. He drank a lot, I know, and his poetry makes no excuses. Somewhere I see he said he didn’t do much if any editing, just wrote and crossed out lines and sent them to magazines and publishers.

What kind of day-to-day technique did these guys use? Bukowski, Hemingway, Henry Miller? And these guys didn’t have computers. Long hand, Steinbeck and his long legal pads and his pencils. Every Day. ‘Journal of A Novel’, his letters to his publisher each day, his daily warm-up writing, he called it, the summoning of his powers, the stretch of creative muscle, admitting the tough going.

But how many days, how many hours did I waste in the morning in corporate conference calls, waiting for some email to tell me where to dial in, what to think about, what the topic was, listening to managers and the fearful chiming in, the hastened cries of ‘I’m here!’ coming from some cat on the freeway speeding from El Segundo to Chino with a cell phone. Mornings staring at the computer screen, waiting for my turn.

I told Grace, the woman at the market with the magazines, when she said she’d put on weight, that you’re the kind of girl who could put on a lot of weight and still be sexy and I don’t think she even heard that or she didn’t want to respond.

‘You look great!’ she told me. Yeah, I got a good hair stylist, I said. She gave me one of those side hugs, where you grab a shoulder and meet elbow to neck, something like that. Can I publish a story in one of those magazines, I’m thinking? Can I get a book on the rack somewhere, with my name on it? That’s what I want.

Little bit everyday. Have a game plan, execute, make adjustments, work ethic, don’t get distracted. I could see Bowa standing in front of me at nine o’clock in the morning. Yelling, his neck straining. Time is not infinite.

7.10.2008

DOWN BY THE RIVER

Laughlin, Bullhead City, Havasu and Parker, the Colorado River, Vidal Junction, Needles; people hiding out, getting by, laying low. So was I.

Listening to the Radio; Top Three Stories from Laughlin/Bullhead City/Parker July 7-9;

3- The ‘adopted’ son shoots and kills his adopted parents in the trailer, then wanders a hundred yards outside the metal box and puts a bullet in his brain. The Coroner’s probably trying to figure out a way to just leave all the bodies where they are and give the buzzards the day off. Don’t think he shot the dog, though.

2- DJ in Bullhead City calls up his buddy, the Friday jock, to play the new promo just cut for the Friday guy’s special show, ‘Southern Fried Firearms’, your basic radio gun show. Highlight of the call was the open, when the guy answers the phone and the live jock asks the gun-show guy if he’s shooting his guns this afternoon. The guy says no, he’s watching Battle Star Galactica. “It’s a really good one!”

1-Two Las Vegas guys arrested in a Bullhead City motel room with guns, $27K in cash and computer software used to make forged checks.

The stories that make small town news so rewarding!

Laughlin, Tuesday night; At the Crab Shack I'm drinking beers with Benny, and he wants to just go back to Boron, and take back his trailer, with his girlfriend of twenty five years who he never bothered to marry and who gave him three nice girls. He was glad to talk to me, he said, because it cooled him off, took his mind off maybe going back there to his trailer and killing the guy who’d moved in with his girl friend. Kill him, he said, with his bare hands. He’d just been in jail for domestic violence, a little three day stint of a ninety day sentence, but he said he didn’t hurt nobody. Maybe the girlfriend just said enough, and kicked his ass out?

He was on his way to Kansas, he said, to get a job, get away from it all but that fell through so he ended up in Laughlin. His dad gave him a thousand dollars to help him out. He hadn’t talked to his dad for two years, they’d had a falling out. But his dad came through with a grand.

Brian ordered another Absolut with cranberry juice and a beer for me, told the girl to put it on his tab.

Andrea, with beautiful breasts and a t-shirt that said “Diamonds are Forever but You’ll Always Remember Crabs; The Crab Shack” shucked boxes of Mexican oysters like she meant it, cracking the crank with slender arms and stealing glances at me.

"I’m going over and get one of those t-bone steaks," Benny says. "Hear it’s the bomb. I’ll be out at the pool later on if you want to come on out."

6.30.2008

THIRTY SECONDS WITH JACK McDOWELL

I didn’t ask Jack McDowell about the thrill of winning a Cy Young. I didn’t ask him about growing up in Van Nuys California in the San Fernando Valley where I worked for eleven years and I didn’t ask him about getting to the bigs after only 27 innings of minor league ball. Didn’t ask him about Stanford or being a number one draft choice of the White Sox in 1987, fifth overall.

I asked him about the four albums he’d recorded with his band Stickfigure and he smiled and laughed. He said no, there’s no music to download in the internet, no records likely floating around in the bin racks at used record stores.

“I wish guys like you could play forever,” I said. I shook his huge hand, his fingers almost crawling up to my elbow. He’d thrown out the first pitch at the Epicenter on a sunny hot Sunday afternoon and the long right arm ended up almost in the dirt, the trademark Black Jack delivery still going strong.

He had the ‘live’ arm as they called it, nasty stuff coming down off his six foot five inch frame and he hid the ball as well as anyone, ninety-plus with movement shooting out of his hip or his elbow that he’d whip at you.

I don’t think pitchers ever shave, at least not when they’re scheduled to go live, and Black Jack had gray going in the scruff spreading on his face and on his head.

He was ready for me, for anyone wanting to shake hands and get autographs. I’d asked the girl at the table out front about Jack’s career and she smiled but said ‘don’t know’ when I mentioned the music and I pointed to the program guide and the mention of Stickfigure and Yahoo sports and the Cy Young.

I’d take that resume. Baseball and music and writing.

I didn’t ask him about Roger Clemens, I didn’t ask him about Barry Bonds. I didn’t ask him if he wishes he was still playing, in US Cellular Field instead of old Comiskey, but I don’t think he minds a bit. Didn’t ask him how he might like to play with the Sox today under Ozzie Guillen with players like Orlando Cabrera and Jim Thome and Alexei Ramirez and A J Pierzynski and maybe the best team in baseball.

Didn’t’ have time. I only had thirty seconds.

6.15.2008

DOWNSIZING

The salesman at Van Nuys Chevy was twenty eight years old, tops, two diamond stud earrings. He grinned too much.

He did it again, as we walked off the back lot into the office.

“You are what you drive,” he reminded me. All those teeth. Then he motioned me in to his felt-lined gray cubicle with the elegance of an intern about to examine my prostate.

A half-hour later and I was a 1992 Chevy Silverado Club Cab pickup. An hour ago I was a 1998 Corvette. The difference in cost between being a Corvette and being a used Silverado Club Cab? Twelve thousand dollars. I folded the check and put it in my pocket.

Maybe, not so much like a prostate examination. More like a sex-change. With a rebate.

I love LA.

6.12.2008

UNFINISHED

We don’t really know what to do with deserts. They just sit there, and we drive by them or fly over them or drop bombs on them. We feel a little uncomfortable, out of place in the heat and the desolation. They're lonely and unforgiving.

Three big deserts, huge geological works in-progress, spread out east of Los Angeles all the way to Utah, New Mexico and Colorado, and extend south deep into Mexico.

For certain climactic and esthetic reasons, Southern Californians mostly live on the coast, in Los Angeles and the beach towns, San Diego, Santa Barbara. I like the ocean. I like beach towns. I like sand-in-the-bikini kinds of days where you watch girls spreading tanning oil over smooth brown skin and all of that clandestine eroticism that takes place at the shore.

I get away to the middle of nothing, though, escape into desert, where pavement falls apart a mile or two from the interstate and you’re on your own, hoping you’ve brought along enough water and maybe food and a blanket or bag to crawl into if you get stuck with a flat tire or you bog down on a trail, get stuck in the sand. I stop the Jeep in the middle of a dusty road and turn off the engine to hear how hard the wind blows and to catch up on the calls of the ravens and the buzz of crickets and the hum of desert survival and the creatures who work this land for a living.

The burned out Joshua Trees and creosote turned crisp in a fire blackens rusty land and etches an outline against evening sky. Breeze crawls up the back of my neck, a puff of sound against my sleeve and the rush of a kestrel flying low along the brush. Jackrabbits stand at every corner, tall ears and long legs, scrambling for cover as I drive by. Lizards take to the rocks for shade and cool air, taking no time to cross the road in straight lines. Nobody is up here but me. No vehicles, no campers, no one hiking or driving or settled in with tents or shelters. It is barren, rough, untouched, pure. It’s mine.

I’ll see no one for close to two hours, no person, just a few houses a half-mile off the road, a few cows grazing, one that scrambles over some loose barbed wire she knows how to negotiate.

Get gas in Ludlow, the girl at the Mojave Preserve office in Barstow advised. Stay away from Essex, she said, you’ll pay $5.59. Wild Horse Canyon is beautiful, she says, changing colors and decent roads, some sandy spots but the Jeep will handle it fine. I get to Hole in The Wall an hour and a half later, a campground and visitor center compound with an equestrian camp. The Ranger’s Tahoe is parked at the visitor center but it’s closed and no one comes out to greet me. It’s after four-thirty, the sun’s dropping in the west, still enough light for a cruise up to the Mid Hills camp and around back the long way to Essex.

Two hundred yards back down the road Wild Horse Canyon road turns up into a dirt trail that crosses a couple of cow catchers painted turquoise and a small enclave with a windmill spinning in the breeze. A raven flushes on my left and flies low through a hollow for a while, guiding me up the grade until he finishes his duty, pulls up into a perch and I continue past the wash and up towards the crest. Burnt brush, sage and creosote and Joshua have a crust of fire and the survival instinct of something that has been through worse. A daily battle with harsh elements of extreme heat and thirst and dry wind will fossilize some, and who will hold them one day? Say here, there was a tree, a bush, some pre-historic remnant that one day was prescient on this vast plain? Who will come, look back on where I was today, alone on this empty plateau, wandering like some newborn thing searching the desert for a new way to see? And what did I see?

I saw the earth, unfinished, raw, empty.

The breeze kicked up and the sun slanted in against piles of granite and fine grain of sand. The dry air, drawn in across the scrapings of geologic time. I saw the earth, working itself, becoming. And full of life.

6.01.2008

JOHN WOODEN

Larry Jones saved me. I was scrolling e-mails and punching up conference calls in another desperate day of tactical corporate survival, until Larry called. John Wooden was in the studio.

'John Wooden? I'll be right down.'

Connie Martinson had just finished up interviewing John Wooden for her show 'Connie Martinson Talks Books' and the Wizard of Westwood was sitting alone on the set. The legendary UCLA basketball coach's book on leadership was hitting stores and the coach was on the talk circuit. Mr. Wooden shook my hand with his strong, soft grip, stared me in the eye with that steady, hawk-like gaze. He looked like my grandfather.

I told him I'd seen some of his championship teams play up in Berkeley. In high school we'd gone up to Cal and bought scalped tickets in the top row of Harmon Gym and watched the Bruins play in front of a rowdy Berkeley crowd.

Mr. Wooden was so nice and polite to me, saying he hoped that I'd enjoyed the games.

I remember the Bruins in their light blue warm-up jackets and white pants coming out and taking the court. The old expression for a basketball team coming out for the game was 'the team took the court.' It meant simply that the starting five went out for the opening tip. Not for the Bruins. They came out early, and literally, took the court, as in took it away from the other team with their opening passing drills.

Lew Alcindor, Lynn Shackleford, Mike Warren and the rest of that team ran a four corners passing drill to start out, with three or four balls, two or three players moving to the center of the half court, pulling in passes, pivoting and firing passes to the other corner, the balls never touching the ground. Crisp, precision, like James Brown coming out on stage and working through dance moves in front of the rhythm section before ever handling the microphone. Just teasing the crowd. They'd break the passing drill with a mock 'dunk' drill with the players just dropping the ball into the hoop, the slam being outlawed when Alcindor arrived in college.

They took the court.

Mr. Wooden was lingering in the studio, in no hurry, so I asked him if I could ask him a couple of basketball questions.

'Sure,' he said, 'go ahead.'

'I've been wondering,' I said, 'in college basketball these days, why no teams use the full court press as their base defense.' The press was the Bruins trademark, a zone press when they made a basket or free throw, turning the tempo up and forcing a fast paced game that favored the quick, tireless Bruins. No one plays defense like that anymore.

'Well', Mr. Wooden said, 'I can't speak for other coaches today, but I can tell you why it took us a long time to get where we could do it.'

I thought I knew the answer. I asked, like a student in the back row, 'because you didn't have the players'?

'Right,' and his eyes twinkled, those killer eyes that have charmed interviewers and players and opponents for decades with that ruthless fundamental approach to the game of basketball. His Bruins made it look simple. Brutal, attacking full court defense, beautiful positioning both on offense and defense and a fast break that preyed upon opponents that tired under relentless pressure.

'We didn't have the players for a long time to be able to play that way,' he continued.

For a starting five to play every night with a pressing full court zone after every basket requires absolute discipline and superior conditioning. Did he mean that he didn't think today's players were up to it?

The eyes sparkled, and he shrugged. 'I can only tell you how we got to develop it,' he said.

So, I gathered, either he didn't think today's players were up to it or the coaches lacked the will to impose a zone press. That was my take, but he wouldn't elaborate.

But I know what I saw in those games up at Cal. Even late in the second half with the game on the line and the crowd screaming, sensing an upset, the Bruins held their poise and made every big play, every defensive stop that they needed to, never leaving their positions and using relentless pressure to force mistakes and turnovers. That comes from daily practice, gym time under a coach who demands all out effort and dedication to detail. Hour after hour of passing drills, fast breaks and outlet passes, stifling defensive pressure without committing fouls. Mr. Wooden didn't use a lot of substitutes to rest his stars. He worked them.

Listen to players like Bill Walton and Kareem talk about 'Coach' like he's a supreme being. He is. He didn't know any more about the game than Bobby Knight or Dean Smith. But he knew how to get more out of his players by demanding that they play a certain way, a way where no one else could keep up with them. That was his genius.

Everyone at the top college level has great athletes. It's the coach who has the guts to turn them into predators on the court, and who can get players to play that hard that dominates. The Bruins overpowered teams before they even got on the court. In the animal kingdom a creature knows when he's dominated by a predator, and submits.

John Wooden was a power coach who walked the sideline in a blazer holding a rolled up program as a foil. Now, Mr. Wooden has the kindly air, the friendly smile and the dimples that crinkle his cheeks. But he still has those piercing hawk-like eyes.

5.14.2008

KELSO

Trains don’t stop at Kelso anymore. The freight trains still roll by the old Kelso Depot everyday, but the railroad stopped using the Depot over twenty years ago.

A red tile roof leans out from the second floor, with gentle Moorish arches framing the dusty oasis and palm trees standing in the green grass and sand and hardscrabble. The Depot is the visitor’s center for the Mojave National Preserve now, the sprawling desert outpost north of Interstate 40 and Amboy, and east of Baker, stretching out to Nevada. The Preserve is big and lonesome, the town of Kelso almost dried up in the sun, like most things in the desert without purpose. The Kelso Depot is open everyday for visitors.

I ran over a snake wiggling across the road south of the Kelso Dunes. It was the only living thing I’d seen up close in a half hour. There was no avoiding him. Swerve and maybe roll the Jeep, at fifty miles per hour. So with a little blip, he was done, and I was speeding on towards the Dunes, six hundred foot high wind-blown hills of sand that look like big piles of gold dust in afternoon sun. A few miles back I’d passed the cinder cones, and down further below I-40, the Amboy Crater. These are big, black, volcanic cones that poke up out of the ground from eruptions that started between 7 and 8 million years ago and continued as recently as 10,000 years ago when the Ice Age came to a close.

Inside the Kelso Depot the park ranger greets you.
‘Hello. Passing through?’

‘Yeah, stretching my legs,’ I say. She nods. She’s used to visitors plodding around, not really seeing anything, stopping in, halfway between nowhere and someplace. I was no different.

It’s cool inside the Depot. The old lunch counter forms three sides of a square in the middle of the tall main room, maps and brochures spread out on the dark wood. The hard plastic laminated maps start with a small one of the Mojave Preserve, detailing the roads and trails and open space of the immediate area.

In the lower forty-eight, the Mojave Preserve is the third largest piece of land that the National Park Service manages. A larger map shows Southern California. The Mojave and Colorado (Sonora) and the Great Basin deserts join up southeast of the Mojave, down in Joshua Tree National Park. In Joshua, the three desert climactic zones are all on display, the high desert, the lower desert and the Basin that runs all the way out to Utah. Another map shows the entire United States.

Deserts cover much of the Southwest. They get rain and even some snow. But by definition, deserts give up more moisture from evaporation than they take in through precipitation.

The counter has chairs, bolted down, wooden ones that swivel on a base. They surround the counter in simple formation, with plenty of room in between. It would have been nice to stop in during a train ride, while the steam engine or the coal engine gets fired up with fuel, watered down. Take a seat at the counter and order a tall chocolate milk shake, talk with the waitress about the temperatures that get up over a hundred degrees four months out of the year.

In the West, historic structures stand alone, abandoned by time and money, no longer useful except as memories. The old buildings are allowed to hang around, no threat to modern development. In this new century, we look to the recent past, declare styles to be post-modern, mid-century, left-over structures that take on nostalgia with a bow. The lucky ones live on, guide books and preservation societies reciting pedigree, recalling their history.

A train rolls by today, not stopping. Oh, once it did, though, taking on water and fuel and food, people getting off, getting on. Mailing a postcard, a letter. 'The West,' they'd say, 'It’s vast."

They did once. They did.

5.09.2008

LOOKING TO LAND

I opened the sun roof and watched a helicopter hovering over the Strip, looking for a landing zone in a battle of light. It veered, slowed, floated down onto the top of the Mirage. Somebody in the jungle had said that choppers were The Angels of Death, but I said it was too close to call. More like schizophrenia, the mechanical equivalent of a decidedly split personality. Inside one, you were either having a great time, flying the Grand Canyon or Denali or some great wonder of the world, or you were seriously fucked up, plucked out of some hell hole, broken and split up and desperate. Dropping into the gambling Mecca for the time of your life, or the jaws of life were popping your car like a can and packing you off to trauma care. Somewhere nearby, your soul was making decisions. Live or die, win or lose, hold or stay. I drove on, the sunroof open, neon reflecting on the metal top framing my head.

5.07.2008

FOUR WHEEL DRIVE

Shit, gimme a new passport. I might be needing it. Got me a Four Wheel Drive.

The Jeep runs great, it ran great, I’m hoping it will always run great. A few weeks ago the little idiot light came on and now they don’t just blink red at you, they spell out more specifically what might be wrong. ‘Service 4WD System’ sounded ominous. It was. The first Jeep shop I went to spent almost a full day to figure out what it needed. Took a couple of phone calls from me to the service writer who’s voice mail promised that he returns all voice messages promptly. He doesn’t. Turns out the next day when I finally had him paged after getting his VM three or four times, he doesn’t exactly return messages that quickly. Didn’t even pick up voice messages, on this day. Turns out he didn’t know what was wrong with my car, on this day, because the mechanic was on lunch and there was no way he’d find out until the mechanic got back, now was there? So he doesn’t return voice messages and has no way to get the mechanic to tell him what’s wrong with my 4WD system. When he does find out, it’s almost two thousand dollars of work. A new transfer case.

When I picked up the car he says, oh, I got your voice message. It was almost three o’clock. I said what do I owe you? Nothing he said. Didn’t think so. I’ll get a second opinion.

Back at the dealer where I bought the Cherokee Laredo, used, with a 75K mile warranty, it took them about twelve hours to tell me the same thing. Transfer case. But they knocked six hundred off the price when I whined. See, I bought this 75K mile warranty, I reminded them. And then just a week after I started getting those so friendly phone reminders from the peppy automated male voice that I COULD renew the warranty, and now of course was the perfect time to do so, the IDIOT light comes on for me, the IDIOT. Because I didn’t renew the warranty? Maybe? Maybe the light going on coincides with a big database that begins calling customers who don’t renew warranties. Is it possible the whole thing is connected in some auto-manufacturer conglomerate Daimler-Benz-Chrysler-Jeep software, programmed to punch up idiot lights, make reminder calls and zap you with fifteen hundred dollar repairs if you don’t ante up?

So how much 4WD’ing do I do, to justify this kind of maintenance headache? Not that much. But it’s a cool ride, a stripped down, silver painted, charcoal interior urban cruiser, and I can ride out any earthquakes, floods, fires and other catastrophes in comfort and safety thanks to that ‘Trail Rated’ badge on the side. Says I can pretty much go anywhere I damn well want to.

Meanwhile I get the 4WD Hardware parts catalog I emailed for, a four color thirty page goody list of Dick Cepek and Mickey Thompson custom wheels, huge Goodrich tires and Super Swampers with tread the size of beer cans. Maybe I’ll just order some new floor mats. And that camo travel mug. That roof rack looks good, the one where I can stuff a mattress, a small television and a surfboard for those extended beach excursions. Gonna need a winch too, when I’m stuck down in the Grand Canyon and that bull elk is charging and I have to pull it all up along the wall and bivouac the whole damn thing from a tree. Some extra strength tensile steel cable, make sure we don’t plunge down into the whitewater, submerge some poor raft trip floaters and get all that grey hair wet and rinse away the hair coloring. Hey, do those Super Swamper tires double as float pontoons? No? Just carry spares, on top of the mattress stuffed into the custom roof rack and the whole thing will float down the Colorado, come out into Mexico somewhere under the border bridge? Got it. I’m there. One more thing? That steering column extension thing, the one that takes the steering wheel right up onto that roof-rack mattress with the television and the Super Swampers stacked up into a nice seat, can I get some pedal extensions too? Ride up there on the Super Swampers, steering and yee-hawwing up there high enough to ward off the critters and banditos and border patrol agents?

Shit, I better get my passport replaced. Lost it in a whorehouse in Tijuana a couple of years ago. Lost it with enough cash in my pockets to start a damn shrine down there.

Probably some maid found it the next morning, or that whore, saying Holy Mother Mary, it’s a miracle, it's a sign. Something like that.


5.05.2008

FINAL DAY

Jared Incinelli stood alone in the bullpen, taking his last look at the Quakes who would go on to beat Lancaster 3-2 on Sunday. Late afternoon sun was slanting in over blue and black and gold flags flapping above the left field stands. Incinelli’s arms were folded.

He never threw a pitch today. He walked off the field and into the dugout for the last time, his final day this year. He would go home to tend to family affairs, retiring from baseball, for a while anyway.

I stuck my hand out, said good luck, touching fists. Thanks, he said, I appreciate it.

Not that he wasn’t good enough. He wasn't released. But the grind and the time away from family can pull a ballplayer away too soon, before there’s time to reap the rewards of rich salaries, bonus’ and endorsements.

Incinelli watched his team, storing up memories, feeling the breeze in his face for the final time. It’s not easy letting go of a dream.

He was standing by himself, yesterday. Today, he’s with people who need him too. Another team, the one he’ll always be a part of. They need him now. He’ll throw and he’ll catch and keep the glove soft and oiled, keep the ball near the television set to finger and flip and roll around in his hand as he watches, remembers, keeps the dream alive. To teach his new child what it was like.

In the sun, under the lights, with a shot at the show.

It’s okay, Jared, it’s good to have dreams. They never die.

5.01.2008

RUBY

Ruby was struttin’ down the left field line, waving at the stands, the empty stands, chin up, pigtails bouncing. Ruby, in her royal blue jersey, number 4, big white letters, RUBY, walking down the line with her team and the dozens of other Little League and T-ball squads.

Ruby, seven or eight years old, beaming, smiling, hands up to the stands where she was seeing fans cheering for her and her team, the stands that were empty this afternoon.

No matter to Ruby, who was waving anyway, getting ready for that home run she’s going to hit. Land on the plate with both feet, hands out, looking up at that crowd cheering for her.

Ruby, tiny Ruby, looking for somebody.

I saw her. I waved. Her eyes were way above mine, searching the stands. I held my hand out. Then she saw me, pointed at me with two fingers, like Barry Bonds coming down the line to the plate after number six hundred. Ruby, pointing at me like she knew how to do it all along. Nobody else around, just me and her. Ruby’s eyes bright and brown and the jersey crisp and smooth and deep blue. Ruby, moving on down the left field line waving at a crowd only she could see. It was all hers this afternoon.

And the home run she hit is going, still going, still going, way, way up there. It'll never come down.

4.01.2008

DANCING

In one week, the last two days, stories in the LA Times of all places, where you’d expect them to hold out on this kind of junk. There they were.

Floyd Mayweather defeating ‘Big Show’ at WWE’s Wrestlemania 24. The next day, Jason Taylor and his debut on Dancing With The Stars. What’s next? Danica Patrick, Mel Gibson and Charlie Sheen in a midnight road race into Malibu Canyon on ABC?

Yeah, I could see it coming, a little faster than I’d expected, like watching a Roger Clemens fastball zinging at you with that buzz of spinning laces, thumping into the catcher’s mitt. But it still shocks me, jocks and sports pages selling out.

Mayweather must be heartbroken, 27 years old and nobody to fight him. Just another best pound-for-pound that nobody loves. Twenty million dollars to fight a seven foot monster in the wrestling arena probably looked good to young Floyd. Can’t say I wouldn’t do it.

Jason Taylor, at 33 and near the end of his pro football career, has every right to try and extend his popularity. The ever expanding market for celebrity based television can probably make room for another good looking ex-jock. Tiki Barber, Ahmad Rashad, Dan Marino, Boomer Esiason all have passable talent, enough to survive on television networks that deliver drivel. No harm there.

But keep the circus acts off the sports pages. Mayweather, Taylor, these stories don’t belong up there next to opening day baseball coverage and the final four. I’m all for creating a special section at the back of the sports pages, just covering strip club arrests, drug and steroid abuse, track stars racing horses and cars, and college football spring practice in the SEC.

Maybe I should be happy that Taylor wasn’t caught in a lap dance and instead caught a national audience with his own dance moves, I don’t know.

Sports Pages were designed, I’m sure I learned this in high school journalism, for the specific purpose of delineating the distinction between legitimate news, the kind that sends countries off to wars and elects presidents, and the sporting kind. Entertainment sections cover movies and music and gossip. Never the twain shall meet, someone said who’s advice I respect.

Yeah, I’m old school, old period, call me what you want. The new school is saying if it pops up on a screen somewhere, a video screen, a computer screen, an Ipod or a cell phone it’s already legitimate and who cares. If it entertains us and holds our attention for more than five seconds, let it be. It used to be fifteen minutes, but that was twentieth century. The Medium, IS, The Message, oh shut up…that’s so analog.

So this is the digitization of American media. Twenty four hours a day and nothing to program. So we take whatever celebrity we can, mix and match with some catchy location background, put the pieces back together like a digital puzzle and everyone comes out with a television career, with no attachment to previous achievement or history. Take a celeb and paste them up on the screen on a digitized background; Barry Bonds climbs Everest! Roger Clemens throwing poison darts at charging rhinos on the savannah…Jose Canseco cliff diving in Acapulco (we wish).

Remember when Jesse Owens raced against horses?

I still consider him one of America’s greatest heroes, sports or otherwise. He sold out. He had to. Had no choice. Today’s heroes? They have no excuse. And the sports pages have no excuse for covering it. Throw those bones to the entertainment editors, the gossip columnists. Do they even have those anymore? Oh, they’re entire twenty-four networks themselves?

There you go.

3.28.2008

No Boycott Here

Let’s get this part straight, right up front. I dig the Dalai Lama. His brand of Buddhism is straight up, pure, as far as I can tell. I even heard him speak, or one of his top guys once in Denver. I wore the red string around my neck or wrist or wherever it was. Even lost my girlfriend at the time to our spiritual advisor who’d turned us on to the Dalai’s appearance, then ran around holding on to ‘her’ hand before the last little spiritual retreat we had up in Keystone. Greg, his name, he smoked cigarettes, I remember, the only spiritually impure activity that he admitted to. Besides probably boinking my girlfriend, a lovely spiritual seeker who was seeking enlightenment from the big huge male totem, it appeared.

Anyway, now that Tibet is blowing again, in trouble with the big Feds from Beijing, we hear from the usual Hollywood suspects prescribing all kinds of solutions for the trouble. I love it when the Hollywood crowd gives us a conscience. An easy checklist we can follow to ease our worldwide political pain.

It usually involves asking someone else to make the sacrifice.

This time they’re calling on athletes. Right. They’re the ones who train and compete just about their entire lives for the opportunity to represent their countries, themselves and their sports on the world’s biggest stage. Just give it up for old Tibet, ‘cause Hollywood says so.

No, Mia Farrow, Quincy Jones, Steven Speilberg, Ang Lee. Why don’t you give up your career, the proceeds from your next movie? Call on America to boycott your next project instead of asking athletes worldwide to give up their quest.

Athletes can’t just pick up the phone and get a studio deal or a movie script to shoot with a major star packaged up from CAA. Ever been to an Olympic Trial, say, in Track and Field? Ever seen what athletes go through, four or five days of races, heats, competitions, to get on the team that wears the colors of the USA, to march in the opening ceremony among thousands of beautiful athletes in native garb from every corner of the world?

Give it up for Tibet, Mia? This is their one shot, lady, their one chance to compete at this level. They don’t get a lifetime pass from a couple of movies that lets you cash it in at the bank for the rest of your days, make a phone call and get a part, a script for ‘older women’ that the old Hollywood gals all say is so missing in today’s film industry. These athletes get their one time ‘part’ the old fashioned way. They win it.

So you want peace in Tibet? Free the monks? Then boycott your own projects, Hollywood. Give up yours, and stop asking the athletes to give up theirs.

Like I said, I dig the Dalai. But I’m not giving up mine, and I’m sure not hoping athletes give up theirs.

Hollywood, it’s time to look in the mirror. Send a film crew over there, do a documentary. Cover the games in that grand style we used to see in the older games, from Rome and Tokyo. Do it in great detail, use the industry to show us. But don’t ask us to give up what is meaningful to us, to close a door on athletic achievement. Close the door on your own projects, if you want to boycott. Or use the industry to focus our attention. Just don’t send Al Gore or Michael Moore. Send someone who isn’t trying so hard to impress us. Someone who won’t try and cash in a trip to Tibet or Beijing for an Academy Award. Send a film student crew, an AFI project team. Make us feel good about what you’re doing, and try and not turn it into a celeb-fest with Angelina or Brad or Mia or Richard Gere grabbing headlines instead of carefully showing us the way.

Me? I’m digging into Olympic preliminaries, getting ready for the trials and the competitions and the games.

Maybe I’ll take a movie DVD and light it on fire and dump it over the back deck. My own protest against Hollywood.

Let the Games begin.

3.27.2008

Jump Start

Mom is doing fine, she says. She had cataract surgery yesterday and I think I was a little jumpy. I told her on Tues I didn't want to call her yesterday, the day of the surgery, so she spent the night with a friend and I got a hold of her today and she sounds fine. She said they wanted her to stay with her friend last night because her blood pressure was pretty high. She sounded fine this morning and is going back in today to change the bandages. Maybe I should have gone up there.
I about bit Gene’s head off yesterday on the phone. No real reason. Probably a little jealousy in there too...hot Asian girl friend, business going well, closing deals...
OK, I feel better
Kee Mo Tay

3.11.2008

Everybody Knows Lonnie

Everybody knows Lonnie. I pick him up and we go to lunch. The hostess, Denise, the lady who I had talked to about Ray Charles and some of the musicians she had worked with in the music industry when I was in a couple of weeks ago, she knows Lonnie.

The waitress knows Lonnie. She knows me too. She knows what I want before we even sit down. Chicken salad sandwich on sourdough. Lonnie orders a cheese omelet.

Robert comes by. He always keeps his sunglasses on. He starts to invite the waitress over to sit with us and I say Robert you’re pickup lines are starting to wear thin. He says I’m not trying to pick up anyone. Just trying to socialize, have a little conversation. If you can’t talk to the girls on a nice sunny day like today, what’s the use, he says.

I love you man, I say to Robert .

I’m going to tell Lonnie about you and my blog, Okay? I tell Lonnie that I’d run into Robert about three times in thirty six hours and finally I’d showed him a chapter from the novel and he read it and then he put it down without saying anything. I said, what, you don’t like it and he said hey, I didn’t throw it away, that’s something. His way of encouraging writers, I guess. I asked him if he'd looked at my blog and he said he saw something I sent but he didn't read it. So when I saw him a couple of days later he was talking about one of his girl friends and how she’d been hesitant or something with his brash come-ons and I said, hey, why don’t you just read my blog? We get together, what, once every six months? And the conversation is ninety nine percent you, I said, and one percent me, so read it, okay?

He emailed me that afternoon. I like the grey background, he said. I emailed back, just read it! He sends back this policy he has. A statement that he doesn't read anything literary and some other stuff about how he doesn’t have time and he just reads law books and don’t take it personally buddy boy just go with the flow. I tell this to Lonnie.

Robert grins, hiding behind his sunglasses. I love you man, I say.

The food comes and Lonnie has this huge plate with a cheese omelet and rice and beans and my sandwich looks small. Robert looks on. He lights up a Marlboro from a green box.

Denise comes out and banters with us, asks Lonnie how he’s been and asks him if he’s still with his girl friend. He says no, they broke up. That was a year ago. Denise says oh, I didn’t know. She asks Robert if he needs anything. He doesn’t have any food and he’s smoking. He says no, unless you want to give me a neck massage. He rubs his neck. She laughs. Oh not now, she says, I’m working but that’s the kind of thing that’s for after work. She leaves and I look at Robert. I love you, man, I say, and slap his knee.

Robert gets ready to leave and we shake hands. I invite him to our festival we’re planning, me and Lonnie. It’s blues, barbecue, baseball, beer, broads, beans, stuff that starts with B, I say. My place. Listen to some music. Robert says yeah, maybe, unless I’m fucking Clara. Beer and barbecue, I say, and Robert says yeah, unless me and Clara are fucking. I don’t want to interrupt that, I say, but you got to eat. He gets up.

Lonnie says he’s been laying low. The cheese omelet looks really good, all gooey, hanging down from the fork. My sandwich has stale bread.

I’m fine, Lonnie says, just laying low. Sometimes I just get tired of people. But you’re okay? I say. Yeah, I’m okay, he says. I stayed in the house for the entire day yesterday, he says. Just watched movie after movie after movie. Hamlet, he says. The best. Laurence Olivier, he says, and I say, yeah, he’s the best. He ran down his top five Shakespeare movies; Olivier in Hamlet, then Othello with Orson Wells and Romeo and Juliet and The Taming of the Shrew with Burton and Taylor. Henry V with some guy I don't know.
Albert says he’ll send me over some of his poetry, but only the old stuff. Not ready to go public with the new stuff, he says, and I say I’m not the public, and he grins. Later he says he’ll send over some older stuff but warns me that it’s kind of amateurish.

I think people who write poetry have heart and soul and are brave. I didn’t tell Lonnie this, but I think he knows.


I Got Invited To A Lecture About Jesus

I just got invited to a lecture about Jesus. "The greatest man the world has ever known." That’s what the woman said at the door when she handed me the full-color flyer. “The address is on the back,” she said. She was smiling the whole time. About thirty seconds was what I allotted her. Door time. Her friend was smiling, too. She was standing a few feet away out on my sidewalk. It was ten o’clock in the morning.

I smiled and said ‘okay’ in a big voice. They smiled. She had blonde hair and was about sixty years old, I think. She wore lipstick. I wondered if they were out in force today in the neighborhood, leafleting the folks who need some morning inspiration. I need some morning inspiration, too. How did she know? I’m not knocking Jesus. He seems to be coming at me from different places.

Yesterday my friend Jim and I had lunch and he told me he thought I might like a book. He took it from the trunk of his car and gave it to me. “How the Catholic Church Built Western Civilization.” For a moment we stood in the parking lot at Coco’s next to the Home Depot talking about Galileo and whether or not it was a good idea to put him in jail for agreeing with Copernicus that the earth wasn’t the center of the universe.

Earlier in the morning I’d forwarded an email from Father Mike and his television show to Gene. Gene had emailed back asking me to stop sending him stuff like that. He doesn’t think he can be saved. It would be a challenge, I agreed.

There are a couple of really nice churches in the neighborhood where I live. I met a man at the deli counter last week. I started talking to him. He said he was really enjoying life, retired now. He was a retired minister at the First Church of Christ. I told him that my mother’s new minister had been from the area and he seemed interested in talking to me until the counter guy gave him his sandwich and then he said good bye it was nice talking to you and he disappeared.

You never know who it is when the doorbell rings at ten o’clock in the morning. Usually it’s a neighbor, or one of the landscape guys or a handyman that’s coming over to look at your garage or your ceiling to make an estimate on what it costs to repair it because the deck leaks. Sometimes Maury comes over. He’s on the home owner’s board and knows all kinds of stuff and likes to keep up on the repairs in the neighborhood. Usually he rings the doorbell and then he knocks real loud. I try and stay upstairs when I hear that.

I talked with my editor yesterday. She has some good suggestions for my novel. There’s a lot of work to do. She’s positive about the project without giving away any false hope. Second drafts are like the early rounds of the NCAA tournament. Anyone can get a last second shot at the buzzer and post a victory. It’s the later rounds where the pressure starts to build and the little schools with the big hopes and out of reach dreams and the clean white cheerleaders go up against the big boys, the Duke’s and UCLA's and find out what it’s really like under the boards where they pound you. My story is good and the characters resonant and now I have to really clean things up and rocket this thing on until it is ready to try and sell.

I finished up ‘Ham on Rye’ by Charles Bukowski last night. The alter ego character Henry Chinanski pummels his way through a rough childhood into young adulthood with a swagger and a fear and the knowledge that beneath it all he just wanted to be left alone in a room somewhere. It was chilling and brave. The front cover is one of the best that I’ve seen, done by a guy named Milan Bozic. It’s just a guy in big red gym trunks in a fighting pose. Perfect. The kid taking on the world.

Duane over at ‘Magic Door’ says two writers sell out in his used book shop. Same two writers who have always been hard to keep, he says, in all the shops he’s had. Bukowski, and Hunter S Thompson. Just can’t keep ‘em in stock, he says. He calls those guys his top drawer or something like that. Top of the line. Sure fire, big sellers. His ‘A’ list writers he sells too, right under the top drawer guys. Hemingway, Steinbeck. They sell. Not like the top of the line guys. So I’m reading Bukowski. Trying to figure out how he does it.



3.04.2008

You Wanna Move That Case of Books From Biography over to Fiction? Yeah, right over there...thanks

Sister blew whistle on Margaret B. Jones, who said she was a foster child in South L.A., but really grew up with family in Sherman Oaks.

By Bob Pool and Rebecca Trounson, Los Angeles Times Staff Writers

March 4, 2008

The gripping memoir of "Margaret B. Jones" received critical raves. It turns out it should have been reviewed as fiction.

The author of "Love and Consequences," a critically acclaimed autobiography about growing up among gangbangers in South Los Angeles, acknowledged Monday that she made up everything in her just-published book.

"Jones" is actually Margaret Seltzer. Instead of being a half-white, half-Native American who grew up in a foster home and once sold drugs for the Bloods street gang, she is a white woman who was raised with her biological family in Sherman Oaks and graduated from Campbell Hall, an exclusive private school in the San Fernando Valley.

"and so, down the road behind the hog farm where the old man was sucking on the corn cob pipe with his dentures soaking in a paper cup next to him, he taught me how to play the blues..."